


Bruised, and Broken

by Sleepless_Malice



Series: Fëanorian Week 2020 [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23095240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Maedhros heals physically, but his mental condition gets worse with every passing day. Fingolfin takes care of Maedhros and his self-destructive behavior.written for Fëanorian Week 2020
Relationships: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: Fëanorian Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673938
Comments: 23
Kudos: 80
Collections: Feanorian Week 2020





	Bruised, and Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [bunn @ AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn) for beta reading this story for me

**Bruised, and Broken**

*****

Although Maedhros physically begins to heal, his mental condition gets worse by the day, Fingolfin notices.

They are at a loss of what to do with him; he, the healers, Fingon most of all for he doesn’t understand why Maedhros shuns him. Maedhros is drifting in and out of consciousness still, though many are glad when he just sleeps; it’s easier to handle him that way. His nephew isn’t exactly cooperating when awake, not with anyone.

Whatever hope there had been that Maedhros will recover is shattered, even if some ignore that truth for their own peace of mind. It had taken all of Fingolfin’s authority to send his son away from his cousin’s bed, forcing him to rest at least for a few hours. Maedhros is tended to by Galdir, the most skillful healer they still have left.

*

Fingolfin is just about to return to his own quarters, having neglected important errands for Maedhros’ sake far too long when someone pulls at his arm. He spins around startled, gaze landing on his son.

Fingon’s face is an ugly grimace of panic, the corners of his mouth twitching, Fingolfin observes. It goes straight to his heart; as if his son hadn’t endured enough pain in the past.

“Quick!” Fingon’s voice is raw.

Panic begins to rise from the pit of Fingolfin’s stomach; the last time he’s seen his son in such a miserable state had been on the Ice, just after Elenwë had died. He grips Fingon by his upper arms, harder than he intends to. “What happened?”

“It’s about Maitimo!” Fingon bites out, voice breaking. “I need your help!”

Fingolfin’s throat tightens and fear spreads up his spine. Too many thoughts are racing through his mind, of which he addresses none. There’s no time for it now and Fingon’s face is telling enough.

“I don’t know what to do,” Fingon admits, close to crying as they rush through the still somewhat provisional encampment at Lake Mithrim, nightfall upon them.

*

Not even the scented candles can quench the stench of rotten flesh.

That is what greets them first upon entering the small tent where Fingolfin had put Maedhros to recover. The sickly smell threatens to turn his stomach but he steps further inside with Fingon trailing behind him. Old bandages with stains of blood and pus are scattered wildly across the bed, in which Maedhros sits cross-legged, body bent and rocking. He’s entirely oblivious to their presence, lost in his own world. A large amount of cloth lies on the floor, together with the thick blanket Maedhros had insisted on. Despite the fires burning day and night, he’s always freezing. It’s unsurprising given that neither muscle nor fat is left to shield his body.

Maedhros is a shadow of his former self, each vertebra visible through paper-like skin when he sits like this. Fresh blood runs down across his chest, his legs, coming from wounds he had torn open anew. Despite the sleeping draught fed to him during supper, he has wakened for reasons Fingolfin can only guess.

“I told you,” Fingon mumbles as he points towards Maedhros.

_ ‘Seventy-three. Seventy-four.’ _

Vague flashes of violent imagery fill Fingolfin’s thoughts. Apart from the obvious, he still doesn’t know what ugliness replays itself in Maedhros’ mind leading him to act like this; there are welts and bruises that tell of beatings, his shoulder standing askew, with skin stretched over a bony body; it’s not hard to guess what he had to endure has been terrible. Whoever had done this to Maedhros, they had been intensely creative about it, in a way that horrifies Fingolfin.

Perhaps, one day, Maedhros will tell them what had happened in Angband – until then, they won’t ask, even if the question is persistently burning. His nephew’s frayed mind isn’t ready to handle forcibly reliving his trauma yet.

In fact, Fingolfin is content that Maedhros has come as far as to be able to speak with them. During the first days, he had curled himself in a ball like a hedgehog, unwilling to open up, with his hands pressed hard over his ears like he was trying to silence the noise in his mind. 

_ ‘Seventy-five.’ _

Icy fingers dig into Fingolfin’s neck as Maedhros’ croaking bleeds into the silence.

“Where is Galdir?” He asks, finally turning around to face his son, an eyebrow raised.

Fingon averts his gaze. “I dismissed him,” he states, looking down at his fiddling fingers. “And then I must have fallen asleep despite not wanting to. When I woke, he .. was like this.”

Although tempted, Fingolfin doesn’t remark on that. For Maedhros’ sake, the conversation between them must wait. “Leave us.”

“What?” Fingon snaps, eyes going wide as if he could not believe his father’s words.

_ ‘Seventy-six. Seventy-seven.’ _

“You won’t be of any help in your current state,” Fingolfin states, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. Fingon had only meant well, as always. “Get some rest, I assure you you’ll need it. For Nelyafinwë.”

“I –” Fingon is about to protest. Fingolfin gives his son a hard stare, at which Fingon gulps audibly. “Yes, father.”

_ ‘Eighty,’  _ Maedhros rasps, gaze fixed on his thigh.  _ ‘Eighty-one.’ _

Fingolfin takes a step towards Maedhros, speaking only when he’s certain that Fingon truly has left. “What are you doing?”

“Eighty-two,” Maedhros whines, rocking back and forth without lifting his head. “Why? I don’t understand. It’s supposed to be eighty-nine. EIGHTY-NINE! Not eighty-one.”

Maedhros twists his foot with his hand, still rocking. “One. Two. Three,” he begins to count from the beginning.

“Nelyo,” Fingolfin says, softer this time as if he’s speaking to a scared child. “What is supposed to be eighty-nine?”

It is as memories of long-forgotten days stir in Maedhros’ mind as he stops his rocking, tilting his head to the side. His face looks like a wraith; pale with hollow cheekbones; his eyes are dark and haunted, open but unseeing. “My scars,” he growls, the small number of teeth left in his mouth showing. Then, he stares down at the dominant scar spreading across his thigh. “I want to carve them out of my skin.”

It takes Fingolfin all effort not to flinch at his nephew’s words.

“You must heal first,” he lies, having learned that truthful answers lead to repetitive arguments that only take away the little strength for healing that Maedhros has left. Especially Fingon struggles to heed that advice; Fingon says that he has never lied to Maedhros before, not once.

“Five, Six, Seven,” Under his uncle’s watchful gaze Maedhros is back at rocking. “Ten, eleven, thirteen. TWENTY! That’s not right!” The sigh that falls from his lips is one of frustration.

“Do you want me to count them for you?” Fingolfin asks, almost certain that Maedhros will reject his offer.

Maedhros narrows his eyes as best as he can with blood having dried across his eyelids. Then, he tilts his head to the side, asking suspiciously, “Why?”

_ ‘Because your bandages have to be replaced anyway.’ _ Fingolfin doesn’t say that. “Because maybe some of your scars are on your back where you can’t count them without the help of a mirror?”

They’ve removed the mirror and all glasses from the room; afraid of Maedhros’ reaction when he sees himself for the first time and out of fear that he might attempt to kill himself with a shard of glass. The Ice has taught them many things.

Under the sting of panic, Fingolfin’s voice seems to have a soothing effect, for Maedhros meets his eyes for the first time, as if he’s willing to believe he means no harm. Maedhros blinks, looking intently at him, then agrees.

“Yes, some,” he croaks, letting his finger run across a very prominent one spread across his shoulder blade.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” Fingolfin says, though he knows he’s treading on dangerous ground now, promising something he’s not absolutely certain he can keep true to. Bruises, though faded to yellow by now are still dotted across Maedhros’ skin.

“I know.” To Fingolfin, remorse sounds in Maedhros’ voice, for he knows that Maedhros still thinks he’s a burden to everyone, deserving punishment for what he had to endure. It’s harder to bear than all the rest.

Fingolfin steps closer to Maedhros’ bed, ignoring the mess on the floor. There’s silence, and a sound suspiciously like a sniff. He ignores that, too.

When he is standing at the edge of Maedhros’ bed, he raises his voice. “Would you mind if I clean and bandage the parts of your body where I have already counted?” he asks, letting his gaze sweep across his nephew’s marred face, hot and feverish. “That way, I won’t miss a scar nor count them twice.”

Maedhros considers, then agrees, nodding. The wild and feral look in his eyes has given way to exhaustion, for which Fingolfin is grateful because otherwise, Maedhros won’t let himself be touched at all.

“To replace the bandages, I have to sit down,” he announces, waiting for a reaction; unexpected movements can easily lead to another wave of panic.

Maedhros nods his consent and only then does Fingolfin begin to remove some of the old bandages from the bed, to settle down on the mattress in a way that allows Maedhros to clearly see his face.

Thankfully, the healer has left behind a bowl with herb-infused water and a cloth, originally intended to wipe the feverish sweat from Maedhros’ brow. Fingolfin raises his hand and puts it against Maedhros’ damp forehead, ignoring the sharp intake of breath at the contact. Apart from that little sound, Maedhros remains silent and Fingolfin hopes that his nephew finds at least a little comfort in the touch. Next, he wrings the cloth, wrapping it around his finger, letting it sweep over Maedhros’ dried lips first; over his partly closed eyes, caked with blood before he moves towards the back, beginning to count.

“One. Two. Three.”

The room is eerily quiet apart from the occasional soft sound of dripping water and his voice, to which Maedhros visibly relaxes. “Four. Five. Six.”

It’s sounds that trigger Maedhros’ strange, self-destructive behavior, Fingolfin already knows that. The last time something like this had happened thunder had roared above the southern shores of Lake Mithrim, bringing forth memories in Maedhros’ mind. But there had been no thunderstorm today, not even rain.

“Was my son already asleep when you woke?” Fingolfin carefully ventures, making certain he doesn’t stop the movements of his hand. He has to find out what other sounds Maedhros reacts to in order to prevent them if possible.

Maedhros nods.

“Twenty-eight, Twenty-nine,” he counts, then asks, “And you couldn’t sleep anymore?”

Maedhros shakes his head. “No. They were so noisy.”

He covers the large wounds at Maedhros’ chest, which he has torn open whilst Fingon had slept, fixing the knot of the bandage. “Who was noisy, do you remember?”

“I don’t know,” Maedhros shrugs, staring at the wall opposite him. “I couldn’t recognize their voices. But it was steel on steel. Clashing. Loud and noisy.” Out of nowhere, Maedhros’ wrists fly to his ears to cover them, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Like that, fighting.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Fingolfin stops counting, gripping Maedhros by the shoulder. “I tell them not to do it again. Okay?” he hopes that his voice will find its way through the covered ears.

“Thank … thank you,” Maedhros sighs, removing his arms from his head.

Fingolfin sighs inwardly. No-one is sparring in that area, not even near-by. It must have been the cooks sorting the cutlery after dinner, something he had not even considered might bring Maedhros unease. He knows better now. His eyes are stinging, and he blinks the salty tears away, aching; he doesn’t speak, knowing that his voice will betray him so he simply goes on to clean his nephew’s body, each of them lost in their very own thoughts.

By now, Maedhros is covered in new bandages from his shoulders to his stomach, close to drifting into sleep again. “I’m cold, uncle,” he says, eyes falling shut.

The room is burning hot, with two fires burning brightly at both ends of the tent. The injuries on Maedhros’ legs aren’t as severe as the ones on his arm and chest, so they can wait to be tended to, Fingolfin decides. He picks up the blanket Maedhros has tossed to the floor earlier tonight, spreading it across his legs first before gently lowering Maedhros’ body that has already gone limp down on the mattress. Then, he pulls the blanket up towards his nephew’s chin, knowing well that even that won’t prevent the shivers.

Fingolfin is about to move to the chair beside the bed to watch over Maedhros’ sleep as he has done so many nights before, seeing him curling into a ball, choking in agony when his nephew’s hand brushes weakly against his wrist. “Stay?” Maedhros asks in what can’t be considered more than a whisper

It’s the first time Maedhros has actively reached for him; for anyone. The words bring tears to Fingolfin’s eyes for that single word is the most heartwarming sound he’s heard in a long while.

“I will,” he replies, catching Maedhros’ hand between his own, smiling down at him. “I will, as long as you want me to.”

Fingolfin watches him until his breathing has become even once more, eyes skipping between his thin wrists, feverish brow and freckles. There’s still hope left for Maedhros’ recovery, he thinks. He thinks of Fingon, too, of the fact that he won’t tell him about what just had happened – he wants his son to believe he’s the first one Maedhros has reached out to.

*


End file.
